That Warm, Fuzzy Feeling
by Elf Princess Bloom
Summary: In which Roger is high on... something, and Mark uses the word cock. Warnings for drugs, alcohol, and RogerMark.


Disclaimer/Notes: If I owned them there would be a lot more leather and just, well. Not trying to pwnz Roger and Mark and their little world. Also? First Rent fic, EVER. So I apologise if they are a bit OOC. I'm still trying to feel my way around in the dark here. But oh yes, there will be others.

AND. I am warning you for Mark's spectacularly foul mouth and a bunch of licking. And drugs and alcohol.

* * *

If Maureen hadn't been such a psychotic bitch, none of it would ever have happened. Roger was sure of that, and he mused in great detail the irony of it all coming back to bite _her_ in the ass. She didn't have what she wanted, and Roger had gotten something unexpected - something freaky and confusing, something that made his insides burn with... well, elaborate description isn't necessary here. Suffice it to say, he came right out of an ugly trap and into the arms of happiness. 

Happiness that had been a warm body curled against his just hours earlier, snoring softly. Happiness that had now gone red-faced and murderous and was trying not to pick Maureen up and throw her out the window. Mainly for Joanne's sake, who was waiting down below and had no idea the situation.

How those two were still together was a great mystery. Roger suspected that Joanne had no fight left in her. Because he knew she wasn't blind. She _had_ to know what Maureen was doing, _who_ she was doing.

He wasn't sure exactly when Maureen had decided to sink her claws into him, but he'd definitely noticed something different, almost sinister about her over the past week. Hell, she'd leer at him from across the room when nobody was looking.

He found it decidedly creepy, and tried not to notice. Except that she started propositioning him with those looks, which made him constantly on edge if they were alone together. And then it had happened, Friday night.

Mark had gone out - something about looking for bar fights to film , and Maureen had shown up, obviously expecting him to be alone.

"I know you haven't been the same since Mimi left, but you should really try to move on. She isn't coming back, Roger."

"I'd prefer to be alone right now."

"To brood!"

"Damn straight," he confirmed, "It's what I do. Is there a purpose for you being here?"

"I thought you could use some company. How about I make you a drink?"

"You planning on getting me drunk and having your wicked way with me?"

"I only offered you one. Don't tell me you're that much of a lightweight."

"I could drink you under the table," He mumbled absently, fiddling with his guitar. "What have you got?"

"Rum. Joanne hates it so I thought I'd bring it somewhere where it would be appreciated."

He peered suspiciously over his guitar, "Stop trying to seduce me with your feminine wiles."

"Who says I'm trying to seduce you?" She asked innocently as she began mixing drinks for the both of them.

Roger said nothing and went back to his guitar, strumming it thoughtfully. A few minutes later she joined him on the couch, handing him a rum and coke. And, God save him, she was _leering_ again, like a creepy old man. A creepy old man with pouting lips and spectacular breasts, and...

A small part of Roger died, right there on that couch. He grimaced at a particularly bad mental image and downed half of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve savagely. Maureen had leaned away from him, taken aback at his strange faces.

"You okay?" She asked evenly, eyes still a little wide.

"I'm fine," He managed, clutching his guitar to his chest like a protective shield.

She placed a hand on his knee, "You need to learn to relax. Finish your drink," She ordered, the hand sliding up a bit on his leg but otherwise not moving.

He obediently picked up the cup again and finished it off, mainly to stall for time. He was very aware that Maureen's hand was _not_ letting go of him, and was starting to panic. Not that he hadn't had practice fending off girls. He could do that easily in fact, but Maureen was no girl. Granted, she had female bits and a pretty face, but there was something lecherous and sinister about her. Roger was sure if she'd been born a man she'd have either been a pimp or a rapist.

Which is why Roger could have kissed Mark for choosing that moment to come bursting through the door. But that would have been too much, present company considered. Instead he jumped up, a little too hastily, and ended up knocking Maureen backwards on the couch.

"Where the hell have you been? I've been worried sick!" He almost yelled, ignoring her cry of protest.

Mark lept backwards into the closed door, very startled. He obviously hadn't seen them until that moment, lost in thought. "Fucking COCK!" He exclaimed, eyes darting back and forth between Roger and Maureen.

The other two blinked. "Fucking cock?" Roger asked, confused.

Mark shrugged his jacket off and threw it on the nearby table. "Forgive me, I'll have a completely acceptable curse planned for the next time you attack me without warning."

Roger sat back down, considerably calmer and almost lighthearted. "Why don't you join us, then?"

Maureen gave them both a shifty look before standing up, "Actually I should be going. Joanne is probably wondering where I am. But I'll leave the rum here for the two of you to enjoy."

"You just got here," Roger pointed out, as she scampered out the door, ignoring him.

The two boys stared at each other for a moment before Mark joined Roger on the couch, picking up the bottle of rum to examine it.

"Mmm, Pineapple!"

"Oh, is that what that funny taste was?" Roger asked, leaning back and closing his eyes. He was starting to feel fuzzy inside. Perhaps he shouldn't have downed his drink that fast. "So where did you go?"

"Were you really worried sick?"

"No. But I'm glad you came home. Maureen was making me nervous. I think she was undressing me with her eyes."

"Probably. And I went to the bar."

Opening one eye, Roger peered at him, "You drunk?"

"A little," He responded, taking a healthy swig out of the bottle. "You want another drink?"

"Sure. We might as well make a night of it."

* * *

And so it began, innocently enough. They were in the middle of chugging drink number four when the Ecstacy Maureen had slipped into Roger's drink started to kick in. He found himself very suddenly having a good, comforting feeling about Mark's hair. He wanted to touch it. 

His friend was, at the moment, taking another swig from the bottle and therefore did not see Roger's hand moving slowly toward his head. Nor did he notice the musician's concentrated look of awe, directed at his hair.

Roger stroked the blonde hair very slowly at first. It was amazingly soft - he'd never felt anything like it before. Then he began petting Mark's head, very thoroughly, running his fingers through the short blond locks.

"Mmmm," Mark purred, and then, "Wait - what the hell are you doing?"

"Feels good," Roger growled, in a low, raspy voice. He scooted a bit closer, so that their knees were touching.

Mark's heart began to race. This was cruel, very cruel, Roger was playing a horrible joke on him in a vulnerable state and - how could he have possibly known? "Bastard!" He slurred, attempting to shove the other man away.

"I love you, Soft-Hair Man." Roger slurred in response, hugging him tight around the middle and nuzzling his face into the crook of Mark's neck.

He struggled, briefly, soon realizing that his companion had a death grip on him and wouldn't let go until he was ready. Instead Mark shut his eyes very hard and fumbled around for the bottle of rum. He twisted the cap off and began chugging, a good deal of the liquid running down his mouth and onto his and Roger's shirts.

Startled at the new sensation, Roger looked up and sniffed a bit, the stench of pineapple rum suddenly strong. He reached out and placed his fingers on Mark's face, then licked them when they came away sticky. Smiling with glee, he leaned up and began licking Mark's face, which was still attached to the bottle.

When he made it to the corner of Mark's mouth they both stopped and stared at each other. Mark took the bottle out of his mouth and raised an eyebrow. Roger kissed him in response. At first, Mark tried to pass it off as an innocent mouth kiss between two very good friends. But then the thing with the tongue happened, killing any normal thought he ever hoped to have about Roger again.

They went on like that, tongues dancing back and forth, in a twisted, sticky sort of tango, for two minutes before Mark was able to pull away, breathing heavily. Roger had somehow managed to twist around so that one of his legs was in between Mark's. He kneeled on the couch like that, one hand braced on Mark's chest, and stared at the other man, expectantly. "Well? Are you going to say something?" He swayed a bit, clutching at the shirt and sitting firmly on Mark's knee.

Mark's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. He took this opportunity to take another sip out of the bottle, which was now half empty. "You _jump_ me, and - what the hell do you _want_ me to say?"

"Say you want this, say you feel it too!" Roger declared, both hands roaming over the other man's body.

Mark gave a small yelp when those hands traveled lower, and made to grab for them. Roger caught his wrists, and, losing balance, tumbled backwards off the couch, pulling Mark down as well to land on top of him on the floor.

Undaunted, Roger hooked his hand into the opening of Mark's shirt and tugged downward, ripping the fabric and scattering buttons everywhere.

"Hey! I _liked_ that shirt!" Mark cried indignantly, struggling to push himself up.

"You'll like this better, I promise," Roger countered, grabbing him by the shoulders and leaning up to bite his neck.

"I...wha...cock!" Mark spluttered, as lips began sucking at his collarbone, and then lower, down his chest.

Roger took the distraction as an opportunity to push Mark sideways and roll on top of him, flicking his tongue over one already erect nipple. His breathing was ragged as he ran his hands across the smooth chest. He lifted his head momentarily to stare at Mark, who at present looked about ready to give in to _whatever _was happening.

But, in a sudden startling moment of clarity, Mark's eyes grew wide, "What the _fuck_ are we doing?" He croaked, rolling over onto Roger to gain control of the situation again.

Not that he'd _had_ control to begin with. He was now straddling his friend's lap, both staring at each other in shock. Roger propped himself up on elbows, grinning up at Mark, knowing he wouldn't be able to end it there.

And he was right. Whatever bit of resolve Mark had left crumbled as he dove down to attach his mouth to Roger's. Their bodies were pressed together, a mass of tangled limbs rolling around on the floor. Pausing for breath, the two of them together managed to pull Roger's shirt over his head before connecting in another kiss.

With an impish grin, Roger pushed Mark on his back and grabbed for the rum, splashing some of it across the man's chest and stomach. It was a cold, unpleasant feeling until the tongue followed, lapping up the liquor that had run in streaks in every possible direction.

It felt good. It _smelled_ good. Warm, and sticky, and that tongue was... going places it shouldn't have, following liquid that had somehow gotten under the waistband of his pants and -

The phone rang, sending them both into a fit of hysterics which was all very comical, given the circumstances. Roger tumbled backward in surprise, hitting his head on the arm of the couch, as Mark sat up quickly, rum dripping all over his pants and onto the floor.

"Well, fuck." He decided, pulling a shoe off and throwing it at the phone just as the answering machine came on.

"Speeeeeeeeak," The phone complained, as it crashed to the floor and fell off the receiver.

They could hear a voice on the other end talking, faintly. Roger crawled over to it, still rubbing his head and picked it up.

"Hello?" He paused, and then, "Benny! How's it going? You know, you have a really nice voice. It's so smooth, and - what? No, you can't come over just now. See, I was about to take Mark's pants off and-"

Mark grabbed the phone out of his hand and screamed into the reciever, "We're redecorating, CALL BACK TOMORROW!" Before hanging up.

Roger grabbed the bottle once again and dove onto him, rum splashing all over the both of them. He shook his hair, droplets flying everywhere, and sighed in content, reaching up and plucking Mark's glasses from his face.

He put them on, blinking wildly as everything went fuzzy. He leaned down and began biting Mark's neck again, to stifle protests.

* * *

When Roger awoke the next morning, the first thing he noticed was that his vision was blurry. The next thing he noticed, through the blurry vision, was that he was staring directly at Mark's crotch. His friend was still wearing pants, but there it was, right in his face. He pushed up, peeling himself off the other man's stomach and grimaced at how sticky they both were. 

Pulling the glasses off his face, he spotted the bottle of rum, laying on it's side a few feet away. He picked it up and finished off the tiny bit that was left, shuddering as it burned his throat. Wiping his mouth, he stared at Mark's pants again, this time noting that the button was undone and the zipper was down. Panicking, he realized that his own pants were - missing. He shivered in his boxers, and a sudden thought occurred to him. He shook Mark awake, roughly.

"Wha-"

"Wake up, you stupid son of a bitch!"

Very confused, Mark tried to sit up, but Roger was still shaking him, and he couldn't see very well without his glasses. Squinting hard, he grabbed the musician around the shoulders and struggled to steady him.

"What the fuck?" He yelled, reaching for his glasses and putting them on.

"We _didn't, _Mark, tell me we didn't. You wouldn't be that stupid."

Mark raised an eyebrow and Roger pointed to his crotch, as if that explained everything. The film maker would have laughed if his best friend hadn't been trembling violently and looking for all the world like someone had just stabbed him in the back. Finally, it dawned on him.

He pulled Roger into a careful hug, stroking his naked back and trying to soothe him.

"It's alright, we didn't. Calm down, everything's okay. We just, got a little carried away with the alcohol is all. You fell asleep with your tongue on my-"

The phone rang, causing them both to wince. Mark looked around for it and finally spotted it on the floor near the couch. He let the answering machine pick up as Roger suddenly went tense in his arms.

"My tongue on your _what_?"

Mark snorted, very loudly, "_Stomach_." He pointed to a spot of drool near his belly button that was rapidly drying.

They both perked up at the last of a message, left by Joanne.

"-she put something in Roger's drink, I don't know what, but... I hope he's okay. Are you two there? I'm sending her up to explain things, we're outside right now."

They both scrambled to their feet, searching frantically for lost clothing. Mark's shirt was beyond repair and so he went sprinting into his bedroom, searching for a new one. Roger found his pants hanging halfway out the open window, and although he really wanted to stop and contemplate this, there was no time. Someone was already knocking on the door. He stumbled toward it, pulling up his pants as Mark came out of the bedroom, tugging something over his head. He opened the door and there stood Maureen, sulking.

"I'm sorry I put ecstacy in your drink." She stated, not stepping in the door.

"You _what_?" Mark cried, closing the distance between them and reaching out for her.

Roger caught his shoulders and held him back, glaring at her, "Why the _hell..._"

"What are you complaining for? I bet you had fun without me." She looked pointedly at his naked chest and then smirked at Mark.

Opening his mouth as if to respond, Roger suddenly thought better of it and simply slammed the door in her face. They stood there in stunned silence for a moment, listening to her stomp away, before turning and walking back into the room. Mark headed toward the kitchen in search of something to drink and Roger followed, not knowing what else to do.

When they sat on the couch ten minutes later, both clutching bowls of cereal, it was with complete silence. Neither had spoken a single word, but waited with a mute horror as the situation grew increasingly uncomfortable. Finally, Roger grunted and stared at Mark expectantly.

Mark ignored it for as long as he could before sighing in exasperation, "What?"

"Are we going to talk about it, or just blame it on drugs and forget it ever happened?"

"It _was_ because of the drugs, there's nothing to talk about."

Roger pouted for a minute, watching his friend eat quietly. Then, "But what if it wasn't?"

Mark choked on his cereal, and spluttered indignantly as Roger pounded him on the back. He took a few deep breaths before turning to the other man with a slight look of fear on his face, "What do you think it was?"

He flinched under the intense gaze, ice blue eyes boring into him with frightening reality.

"A solution to a problem I've been having," He said simply, maintaining eye contact.

Setting the bowls on the floor, he scooted closer to Mark, who realized too late that he was backed into the corner of the couch with nowhere to go. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed," He continued, frowning. "Are you retarded?"

"How am I supposed to notice anything when you shut yourself away in your room for hours on end?" Mark replied angrily. "Dick." He added, as an afterthought.

Roger's upper lip twitched in amusement. He liked it when they called each other names, it gave him a fuzzy, happy feeling. He grabbed Mark by his shirt and pulled him in for a kiss, arms flailing in protest.

The blond man pushed back very insistently, gasping for breath, "Roger, there's something I... I've always sort of-"

"I know," Roger hushed, trying to kiss him again, but he turned his head.

"Then why hasn't this happened until now?"

"Well, it just seems right, doesn't it?" He pondered, "I mean the kids have left the nest finally, and mummy and daddy are left with the alone time they've always wanted."

"That's disturbing. Can you never describe it that way again?"

"Whatever you say, mommy." Roger crooned, pulling him up off the couch.

Mark frowned, "Why do I always have to be the woman in your twisted scenarios?"

"Because you have such soft hands!"

Roger grabbed one of said hands and began dragging him toward the bathroom, "Come on, we need a shower."


End file.
